


Resonant strings, and maybe heartstrings.

by orphan_account



Series: Fullmetal Femslash February 2014 [28]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, F/F, Femslash Challenge 2014, Femslash February
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 02:04:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Typically—a word which here means <em>in every single applicable piece Winry has ever played in her entire time in orchestra</em>—the violins and cellos bow gorgeously to unveil the beautiful melodies ribboning across the page, as the violas and the basses, hum in harmony or pluck in rhythm, always adding to the ever-shifting atmosphere and mood of a piece without truly taking any sort of active role.</p>
<p>And so Winry, first chair of the cellos and Concert Organiser, insisted upon a piece <em>with</em> solos for both viola and for bass. And now, placing her bow gently upon the length of the music stand and allowing her shoulders to slouch back the tiniest fraction of a degree, Winry rests her palms in the grooves of the cello’s sides. <em>Listens</em>. Because Paninya, at the moment, is speaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resonant strings, and maybe heartstrings.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Femslash February. Prompt null on my bingo card, "Bonus Track #3". And with that, GC's Fullmetal Femslash February 2014 has come to a close.
> 
> Which doesn't mean that I'll stop writing femslash. Ever. But I have a far wider variety of OTPs and ships and so forth to play with now, and I'll try to get to all of them in tandem. For now, focus is going to shift to updating Apocalypse Not and Rush Summer, with primary shipping fics dealing with May/Lan Fan, Ling Fan, Almei, and Catalina/Ross in terms of shipping (as well as the other ships and such I've displayed throughout my time here. But my interest in writing queer ladies of colour is never going to change.
> 
> Anyway, it's been a wild ride, so thank you to everyone. Especially my folks over there at LP. Love you guys, man. YOU ROCK.
> 
> This is set in the same AU as "Snapped strings, and maybe heartstrings". However, the former is not required reading: I just like bookends.
> 
> Final statistics: I've written nearly eighty thousand words this month for this series alone, not counting other femslash works I wrote this month (like much of the Lan Fan/May that I left out to preserve variety in this collection, or the Korrasami Frozen AU). About fifty-six or fifty-seven thousand was eventually posted, with the rest sitting in half-finished fics in the document that I intend to go back and complete at some point.
> 
> Unedited/unbeta'd/etc. Thank you so much for reading, and see you next February for another month of dedicated femslash.

Typically—a word which here means _in every single applicable piece Winry has ever played in her entire time in orchestra_ —the violins and cellos bow gorgeously to unveil the beautiful melodies ribboning across the page, as the violas and the basses, and sometimes even the second violins, hum in harmony or pluck in rhythm, always adding to the ever-shifting atmosphere and mood of a piece without truly taking any sort of active role. Difficult passages, of third and fifth and ninety-seventh position up the fingerboard to the breaking point, of machine gun fire sixty-fourth notes threatening to snap unwary fingers in their unabashed speed, of ridiculous challenge requiring enormous skill and work.

And yet, because the difficulty lies in undulating harmonies or in backbone rhythms, the viola and the bass slit one another’s throats for the tiniest scrap of spotlight left over once the violin and cello have sucked their fill.

And so Winry, first chair of the cellos and Concert Organiser, insisted upon a piece _with_ solos for both viola and for bass. And now, placing her bow gently upon the length of the music stand and allowing her shoulders to slouch back the tiniest fraction of a degree, Winry rests her palms in the grooves of the cello’s sides. _Listens_. Because Paninya, at the moment, is speaking.

Not with her mouth—although the determined set of her jaw, the faint smirk at the corner of her lips, and the hint of pink tongue poking out from her mouth in her concentration leave Winry pressing her palms against the cool wood of the cello to avoid rushing out in front of the deathly silent crowd and kissing Paninya on the spot—but with her music. Supple fingers gliding over the strings with a gossamer touch, a bird’s wing alighting upon a rock and somehow bearing the rock with it. Powerful arms, muscled and toned from shop and football, caressing the bass as tenderly as a lover caresses her loved. The strings resonate, vibrate visibly as she draws the bow. Vibrato upon every note, even where the string thrums so slowly that little would pose a greater challenge. But Paninya knows her bass. Knows her music.

Knows her _self_.

When the final note quivers into the air, fading first at the edges and then entirely into a single thread of the blanket of sound and silence infusing the auditorium with a slice of magic, of fantasy, the audience collectively pauses. And bursts into applause. Loud and lengthy and proud, until the noise overflows. Pushes against floor and ceiling and wall.

And suddenly Winry is out of her chair and her cello is in the hand of her stand partner, Rosé. And just as suddenly Winry has thrown her arms around the armbands of Paninya’s tuxedo, crushing her girlfriend to her chest, whispering, “May I kiss you?”

Then Paninya is kissing her, in front of the world, and the universe has never felt more right.

For a moment the standing ovation frizzles and stumbles, the audience uncertain, lost. But then the efforts redouble. Frenzied. Ecstatic. Joyous.

Reflecting, ultimately, the solo bowed on the strings in Winry’s, and in Paninya’s, hearts of hearts.

The same strings.

The same heart.

The same solo.


End file.
